The Fables of Ben Cole

The Unicorn

2005-01-04T01:56:00.000Z

A note to the purists: There are no virgins in this story; there are other unicorns in this world. My unicorn is more the “prowd rebellious Unicorn” of The Faerie Queene, the “supernatural being of auspicious omen” spoken of in Chinese folklore, a creature who can talk to forests; perhaps, he is a figment of my imagination.

It was early spring when the Unicorn arrived.

The Forest was still bare, the first whispers of green not quite woken from their furtive buds. He slowed as he approached and considered what lay ahead: Dark tangled branches and low sweeping boughs. His gaze was met with indifference, the coldness of winter still evident in the arching of the wind. The Forest swayed, lackadaisical and tired. Come forward, she seemed to say, though I hardly think I’ll care.

At first he faltered, surprised to see his advances so tacitly undermined, but then, as he took his first tentative steps toward her, he was welcomed by a dance of flowers, so coincident with his approach that he was certain they’d been conjured just for him. He marched forward with reclaimed confidence.

The Forest smiled at this cocksure arrogance. She watched the Unicorn from her bed of springtime pink and innocent white, saw him dance and prance and raise his head in pride and fitful sway, and was happy to let him believe what he wished.

Neither spoke in these early moments, both still testing the mode of the other’s countenance, and responding with posture and silent challenge. The Unicorn flicked his head, his lavish mane sweeping to cover first one side of his face and then the other. He stamped his feet and stood erect, certain that the Forest had noticed, marvelling at her ability to stay silent.

The Forest swayed, shimmering now in a gown of green, and let the waft of her perfume stand as her response. She knew that she would be the first to speak, the Unicorn so clearly unused to the rigours of conversation. She waited a while, enjoying his fragile bravado. After a time, though, his stance became less sure and his head began to fall, and she worried that she had waited too long.

“Unicorn,” she said, her voice gentle, but rich with a certain confidence, “You may stay with me a while. I enjoy the way you dance and prance and play around me. Indeed, I wish you to stay here.”

The Unicorn raised his head – aloof and regal – certain that he did not need to be asked. He began to marshal a response, to make clear that he knew he was invited and that certainly he would stay – for as long as he cared to do so; but the Forest had not yet finished speaking.

“But Unicorn,” she said, her voice now serious and pointed, “You may not stay too long.”

The Unicorn brayed. How dare she say this? To whom does she think she speaks?

But the Forest continued: “Unicorn, listen. Please listen to these words, for I am thinking only of you. It is dangerous for you to stay here. Many mortals visit me and they will likely find you. You must not let this happen, for you are an imaginary creature and exist for them only in their dreams.”

The Unicorn snorted through his nostrils.

“Unicorn, be certain, you are not real. Take heed of this, for it is from here that you find your strength, your identity. You must not stay too long or you will surely be discovered. And, Unicorn, remember this: to be discovered is to be forever changed. And so I say, don’t stay too long. And ask, also, that you take care. Take care to leave no trace, no evidence of your existence here with me; for your mark, too, will make you real. Unicorn, you must be careful, or you will be forever changed.”

The words fell on his ears with such seriousness and foreboding that the Unicorn could do nothing but laugh. He was uncertain what to think of the Forest’s recalcitrant beseeching; so casual in her request for him to stay, and yet so adamant in her rejection. He thought of the mountain streams, whom he’d passed on his travels, who’d called to him to splash his feet, and laughed as he danced in their tickling chill. They hadn’t voiced such serious concerns. And their bubbling voices had begged him to return the very moment he had left them. Then he remembered the Forest’s feigned indifference to his arrival, and wondered why, if she thought so little of his presence, she cared so much for his disappearance. She’s scared, he reasoned, of becoming too attached.

And so it was that spring turned into summer, and the early springtime buds were transformed into full and fragrant flowers, and the fragile greenness of the trees slowly grew into a rich and wonderful canopy, and the coldest winter winds were swept away in a haze of sultry heat. And the Unicorn stayed in the Forest.

She watched him as he danced and pranced and paraded himself across her coloured glades. How proud he looked as he explored her shaded hollows, the concentration of his eyes hinting at a depth his demeanour kept well hidden. Every day she watched him, and every day she worried that he would surely stay too long. She worried, but could not bring herself to utter any words, for she was sure they would be rejected forthwith by the Unicorn. And so she suffered in uncomfortable silence, and this uneasiness was echoed in the increasing summer heat.

But then, as the summer reached its zenith, and the heat began to grow so strong that even the most sheltered trees were moist with languorous humidity, tempers began to tighten, and the Forest felt sure she could be silent no more. The Unicorn seemed maddened by a summer fever. His passion was high; the burning heat ensured that far too little sleep had passed his way. He was becoming reckless: kicking and jumping and taking no care to keep himself safe. And so the Forest resolved to speak her mind:“Unicorn,” she said, as confidently as she could muster, “Be careful not to stay too long.”

She faltered as she spoke, for she had meant to tell the Unicorn to leave.

As it was, he brayed, and wondered why she would bring this up now – again – after he had stayed with her so long.

“What would you have me do,” he asked, making no confidence of his indignation, “Go back to the mountain streams, who I met on my journey here? They were all too keen to have me back, and never filled my head with foolish worries.”

“No,” she replied, for the thought of him returning to the mountain streams in some way made her sad. She hated herself now, because she was only trying to protect the Unicorn, and she knew he did not understand. She also knew no clear way to communicate her feelings. As it was, she felt unsure even of what she wanted, and was trapped by her own confusion. And so, again, she resolved to say nothing at all.

The Unicorn thought of the mountain streams, of how refreshing they would be, the chill water flowing round his ankles. And, he mused, in their fast flowing water, I could hardly be accused of leaving a mark; my trace would wash away. He did not leave, though; the Forest’s labyrinthine expanse offered too much pleasure.

And so summer turned slowly to autumn, and the Forest’s sadness found release in the yellow and orange of her falling leaves. The gradual change of season brought with it an abstract peace, the general pace of life much slower now than it had been in the months before. Yet, deep within the Forest, the sense of melancholy remained. The Unicorn was no longer her constant visitor. Gradually, he had taken to spending time away from the Forest. As autumn crept on, he took his leave more often, and she was in many ways relieved.

The Unicorn, though, had begun to visit the mountain streams; thoughts of their gentle, bubbling flow had become far too vivid to be ignored. He did not speak of this, however; although he was certain that the Forest knew of his travels. How could she not, he asked himself. And why discuss things that are so implicitly clear? Who could possibly benefit from such idle honesty?

And the Forest was fairly certain that the Unicorn had returned to the mountain streams, and she was in some ways relieved for this to be so, for she no longer had the strength to continually protect him. In a way, she hoped that he would not return, that he would leave her one day, without ever being discovered. But that day refused to come.

And then it was that winter began. The air again turned cold, and the cruel winds started once more to blow, and though still he came to the Forest, the Unicorn came ever less.

He was visiting, perhaps, but once a week, when the snow began to fall. It fell thickly, in a single night, and by morning all the Forest was covered in a blanket of white. It was into this whitest Forest that the Unicorn walked that icy day.

The snow felt cold against his feet, and teased him into playful prancing. He began to dance and run and leap about. As he jumped and pranced, snow from the boughs above him fell gently on his face. He delighted in the fun he was having, the way he felt in the flurried snow, and wondered what had ever possessed him to leave the Forest, for even the shortest time. But then, as he looked around to savour the magnificence of the Forest’s beauty, he saw the prints that his uninhibited dancing had left behind in the snow, and he remembered at that moment, her warning, and he knew that he had left his mark.

At once, he grew frightened, for he knew the Forest’s warnings had been true. In his panic, he tried to remove the marks, to rub them out by dancing over them again and again, and then, when that had failed, by rolling over them on the ground, but he simply encouraged the marks, packing them down, and making them increasingly obvious. The Unicorn knew then that all was lost and he fled immediately from the Forest.

In his fear, he sought solace in the mountain streams, hoping that they might somehow relieve his anxiety, but on this coldest day the streams were frozen over, and, no matter how hard he kicked upon their covered ceilings, he could not make them take notice. And so he continued running, heading ever further from the Forest, frightened all the while of what would become of him, frightened that he would have to change.

And he travelled so far – over the mountains and passed the valleys that lay beyond them – that he nearly reached the edge of the world, and yet the air stayed winter chilled, and the Unicorn could not forget his image of the Forest: her snow covered bed, his dancing tracks, so clearly visible; and he dared not return there.

And he travelled on and on, never daring to stop, never daring to turn around, all the while running from what he would certainly become, the memory of the Forest so constant before his eyes.

And then one day he reached the edge of the world, and found that he could run no further. And so he stood, quietly frozen, looking out into the darkness, and wondered where he could go now. To him, it seemed that all was lost. He had but two choices: the first, to throw himself off the edge of the world; the second, to return to the Forest, to certain change, to what he would become. He walked forward, pushing himself as close as he dared toward the edge. He stared out and knew that with a single step, he would surely fall into oblivion. But he could not take that step.

And so, the Unicorn resolved to return the Forest, to face whatever was to come. With reticence, he turned, and began his journey back across the valleys and over the mountains. He had travelled a great many miles, and, increasingly tired, the pace of his walking had become slow. And, all the while, his head was filled with images of the Forest and the unknown future that lay ahead.

At two days’ distance from the Forest, the Unicorn passed the mountain streams. Too fast flowing to stay frozen long, they called him as he travelled by. “Oh, Unicorn, come sooth your feet,” their voices chimed. But the Unicorn was focused on returning to the Forest and paid them little heed. And so they taunted him as he passed. “Oh, Unicorn, where are you going in such bad humour, that you will not rest with us a while? To what engagement are you headed that you cannot pause to dip your feet? Unicorn, who do you think you are, to ignore us in this way?”

But the Unicorn found their chiding foolish. He had no time for their idle chatter. He shivered in the freezing air, and focused only on what lay ahead. The gravity of his future was what mattered to the Unicorn; thoughts of the Forest and of his frozen tracks had filled his mind for so very long. And now he was nearly home, and his heart was filled with an increasing uncertainty. Soon I will experience change, he thought, and the mountain streams and the coldness of the winter air seemed insignificant. Nothing in his past had touched him; he had been forever the same: The Unicorn. Now he was heading to something new, something quite unknown.

Again, he thought of his frozen tracks, lying so visibly on the Forest floor, and he prayed that change would be something good. It was the first time he had even imagined this possibility. The mountain streams continued to call to him in the distance, and he knew he wanted to be free of their laughing voices. Perhaps, he thought, I need to change. And the mountain streams kept singing, “Oh, Unicorn, come dance with us, for you know we flow just for you,” and he didn’t want to hear their lies. And the mountain streams continued to sing, “Oh, Unicorn. Oh, Unicorn,” and he knew that he wanted to change. Inside, he felt a strange excitement, a sudden expectation at the things to come. Soon I am going to change, he thought. And at this, he increased his pace. By the time he reached the Forest, he had practically reached a gallop.

Much time had passed since he’d left the Forest, and his arrival coincided with the beginning of spring. As he entered the Forest, he saw that her budding flowers were once again starting to grow, and that a suggestion of green had returned to her tallest branches.

The Forest watched him as he wandered in her midst, reacquainting himself with her form and nature. She watched him as he gazed lovingly at her flowers, and as he stood beneath her crisscrossed canopy. She watched him as he realized that the snow was melting, and as he bowed his head and touched the ground in recognition that his tracks, too, had begun to fade away. And then, she smiled.

“Unicorn,” she said, “Unicorn, rejoice, for I have so much to tell you. Your tracks are disappearing. And they were never found. Unicorn, rejoice, for no mortals have visited me this winter, and soon all this will be nothing but a faded memory. You are saved, Unicorn. You have not been changed. You are saved, Unicorn. You will never change.”

And the Unicorn nodded his head, and tried once or twice to bray. And he wondered, perhaps, if he should dance, though, in fact, he felt nothing of the sort.

The Rose

2005-01-04T01:50:00.000Z

This is a love story, and it must be hand delivered. Potentially, it could be presented with a small, red, glass phial.

Once upon a time, in a land not far from here, on a day not dissimilar from today, a boy stepped from his house and began a quest. He was looking for rose seeds to give to a girl in his village.

His country had a custom: a day when lovers exchanged flowers as markers of affection. The flowers were called “representations of love” and each person sought to buy the biggest and brightest bouquet. In his village, the arrangements were often complex, containing many rare and wondrous flowers.

The boy, though, was poor and could not afford a bouquet as lavish or bold as the one he imagined for the girl. He had saved enough money for a single rose, but was loath to buy such a simple and lonesome arrangement. There were other flowers cheaper, but a law in his country required each bouquet to contain at least one rose. The flower peddlers who visited knew of this law and the price of roses was kept artificially high.

The boy had fretted away many days and nights wondering what he could possibly do. He had not slept a wink in all that time.

Finally, with a single day to spare, he had fallen asleep. Exhausted, he’d slept unusually deeply, and had experienced a vivid and disturbing dream. He’d dreamt of a single rose in a tall and clear vase. The rose was sublimely beautiful, but, as he watched, it began to wilt and die. The boy woke with tears in his eyes and knew for certain that he couldn’t spend his money on something so fragile. A cut flower, robbed so clearly of its life, was no marker of his affection for the girl.

But the rose had been undeniably beautiful. At the height of its life, it had been, perhaps, the perfect gift. And the law clearly stated that a bouquet must contain at least one rose. The boy was confused and remained uncertain what to do.

It was while eating his morning meal (a rustic soup of carrot and pumpkin, served with a portion of homemade bread) that he realized the solution. The bread was covered in poppy seeds and one such seed had become lodged in his teeth. The solidity of the kernel had astounded him. And this, combined with images from his dream, brought to mind the possibility of rose seeds. If he could give her rose seeds, he imagined, they would be the perfect token of his affection.

That day, the town was filled with a great many flower peddlers, their bold bouquets arranged in lavish presentations. The entire village was swathed in floral decadence. The boy surveyed the scene for a while, before approaching a flower seller and starting to look at his collection.

“Might I interest you in some flowers,” asked the flower seller, a short fat man with a strange hooked nose.

The boy shook his head.

The man looked indignant. “Then why are you standing at my stall?”

“I wish to ask you a question,” said the boy. “I am looking for rose seeds and I was wondering if you had any?”

The man squinted at the boy. “What,” he asked. And the boy started to repeat his question.

Before he could finish, the man raised his hand. “Stop,” he said. “Whom do you take me for? I am a flower seller, not a seed merchant. I am a creator of bouquets, not a horticulturalist. I have in my possession some of the world’s finest flowers, delicately grown by able gardeners and brought here from all across the globe. There are a thousand roses, right before your eyes. And yet here you are asking me for seeds.”

“But,” said the boy.

“Be gone,” said the man.

And the boy walked off, in search of someone who might be better able to help him.

Soon, he found another flower merchant, a youngish woman with curly blonde hair. She smiled at the boy as he approached her stall.

“May I help you,” she asked.

“I am looking for rose seeds,” said the boy.

The woman shook her head. “I don’t sell seeds,” she said, and the boy looked at the floor, scared that he had offended yet another flower seller. But the woman continued talking. “You need to find a gardener,” she said. “There is one living quite near here. If you knock on her door, I’m sure that she’ll be able to help you. Let me give you her calling card.”

The flower seller handed the boy a rectangular item with the name and address of the gardener written on it. He stared at it for several moments, before thanking her profusely. And then he set off to find the other woman.

When he knocked on her door, there was no reply. The boy was despondent, but then he saw that she was working outside, so he called to her through her fence. She came quickly to see who was there.

“I was given your name by a flower seller,” said the boy, “I am looking for seeds.”

“I have many seeds,” said the gardener, and she opened her gate and let the boy into her garden. “What kind of seeds are you looking for?”

“Rose seeds,” said the boy.

At this, the woman’s eyes appeared to widen.

“Rose seeds!” she exclaimed, and it seemed that she would fall over backwards. “No one has ever asked me for rose seeds before.”

“Do you have any,” asked the boy.

“Roses are grown from bushes, which are sourced from other roses. Nobody ever asks for rose seeds.”

“I would like to buy some,” said the boy.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” she replied.

The boy was confused and wondered for a second if she was joking. He frowned. “But surely you must,” he said at last, “You’re a gardener. Don’t you grow roses?”

“I have never needed seeds to grow roses. As I said, they’re grown from cuttings.”

The woman was growing bored of the boy’s questions.

The boy, however, continued: “But who grew the original roses,” he asked, “There must be such a thing as rose seeds.”

“I’m sure there must be,” said the woman. “But I have never seen any. People don’t need them. What would you want with rose seeds, anyway? You can easily buy roses in this town.”

The boy closed his eyes and thought of why he wanted rose seeds. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, and let his head hang low. He thanked the woman for her time, and started to walk back into town.

As he passed through the market, he was confronted once more by an army of flower sellers. The scents and colours of their floral fanfares felt like a personal affront. Having failed so completely in his quest, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t simply spend his money on a rose. He fished around in his pocket, searching for change, and began to approach the nearest florist.
But, as he drew closer, he remembered the darkness of his dream, and he recollected his tear-soaked face when he’d woken in the morning, and he knew that he couldn’t make the purchase.
At this, he started home. Perhaps he could apologize to the girl for his lack of flowers and hope that she understood. He sighed and closed his eyes. He felt like a criminal.

The walk to his door took an inordinately long time. His steps had little enthusiasm and he grew more and more downhearted with every passing yard. It was almost dark and the shadows were very long by the time he neared his home.

As he turned into his street, he noticed a black caped figure standing in the road. Hunched over as he was, and carrying a long-handled sickle, it was easy for the boy to imagine hooded form to be the living incarnation of death. Drawing closer, however, the figure revealed himself to be a wizened old man.

“Boy,” said the man, “I have been watching you this day.”

The boy continued walking. He was in no mind to talk to crazy people.

The old man called to him as he passed: “Stop,” he said, “I have seen you on your quest. I have watched you trying to find rose seeds to give to the girl in your village.”

The boy paused. “How do you know about my quest,” he asked.

“I know many things,” said the man. “For instance,” he said, “I know where you can find rose seeds.”

“Oh really,” said the boy, “And where might that be.”

The man ignored the boy’s sarcastic tone, and replied with perfect neutrality. “I have some here,” he said.

“Where?” said the boy, for this day had been so laden with disappointment that he did not believe a word of it.

The man dipped his hand inside his cape, and pulled from his pocket a small glass phial. He handed it to the boy. “There are some in there,” he said with pride.

The boy stared at the object in his hand. It was an oddly shaped, bright red container. It was too dark to see clearly what was in it, so he held it up to the dwindling light and peered at it more closely.

“It’s empty,” he said, after a short while, “There’s nothing in there.”

The man put a finger to his lips. “Shush!” he said, “Be careful what you say around them. Rose seeds have very sensitive souls, which is why they make such beautiful flowers, but they are well aware of what you say, and it can affect them deeply.”

“But there’s nothing in there,” said the boy, again.

The man raised his eyebrows. “It is a little known fact,” he said, “that rose seeds are invisible. Not even the horticulturalists know this, because they grow all their roses from rose bush cuttings.”

The boy shook his head.

The man ignored him and continued his explanation. “The roses that they grow are hundredth generation copies. Tainted, all tainted. Even the most beautiful flowers are usually fifteenth or twentieth generation. There are few people in this world who have ever seen an original rose.”
“But you are one of them?”

“I,” said the man, gesturing with his sickle, “am a rose gardener. It is my responsibility to repopulate the planet with first generation roses. I choose to do this sparingly, because there are so few people around who deserve to see a first generation rose.”

“Oh,” said the boy, wondering if the accusation was being somehow levelled at him. He imagined himself to part of an increasingly cruel practical joke.

“But,” said the man, “I think you might deserve to see one.”

The man said this so earnestly, that it was hard for the boy not to believe him. “Really,” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the man. “I want you to keep the phial. And I want you to plant those rose seeds. Though, I don’t think you should do it tonight. You are far too emotional, right now. I think you should wait a few days, and then plant them in your garden. Then, I assure you, they will grow into flowers of unimaginable beauty. Until then, you must keep them well hidden, in the darkest place you can. You must plant them in equilibrium.”

The boy nodded. “Thank you,” he said, for he believed what the man had told him. But then he felt sad. “But sir,” he said, “what about today? I was hoping to find these rose seeds to give to a girl in my village. Now that I have them, it seems that I can’t in fact do this.”

“I am aware of that,” said the man, “but in order for these roses to grow, you must keep them safe and hidden. The seeds are sensitive. Given away in haste, there’s a risk that they could die.”

The boy rubbed his face. “But, that’s not fair.”

“This flower has both thorns and petals.”

The boy closed his eyes. He was silent for a few seconds, wondering why it should be this way. Finally he spoke: “Well in that case,” he said, “I don’t want them.”

“But they are the most beautiful flowers imaginable.”

“And yet I cannot give them to the girl I love.”

The old man sighed. “You cannot give her the seeds. Why are you in such a hurry to do it all today?”

The boy became angry. He felt cheated once more by the world. “Because today is all that matters,” he said. “Because today I want to express my love for another person. Because today…”

“But soon you will have most amazing roses in the world,” said the man, “And then you can give them to her at your leisure.”

“And they will still be roses. And they will still wilt and die in their vases. And they will never express the way I feel.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Then give her the phial,” he said. And he began to walk away.

But then he stopped and turned to face the boy. “But tell her how you found it,” he said, “I suppose there’s a slight possibility that she’ll find your gesture sweet.”

And with this the man departed, leaving the boy alone to think.

The Clockwork Toy-Maker

2005-01-04T01:37:00.000Z

There is a certain poetic beauty, a special naive tragedy to be found in the medium of fairy-tale. It is a treasured form and one which I both cherish and enjoy. It is with this in mind that I sit to write this story and it is without cynicism or irony that I pen these starting words…

Once upon a time, among the ancient arches and whispering canals, lost somewhere among the self-conscious stonework and ageing abbeys, the rambling twists and turns of the town of B––, there lived a toy-maker. A toy-maker of such skill and renown that people traveled from the furthest corners of the world to see creations that word of mouth could describe only as… indescribable.

None had ever met the toy-maker, but it was said that the toys themselves, miracles of clockwork and common lace, communicated, to all who saw them, a life of their own. They were magical machines and the toy-maker had long been proclaimed genius. Like so many geniuses, however, the toy-maker was given to certain, whimsical, flights of fancy. Barring extreme reclusiveness, the most particular of these was an unwillingness to exhibit more than one toy at a time.

Ritualistically, it seemed, at every summer’s end, a new toy was unveiled and paraded through the streets of the town. Past the shop-front facades and against the lyric tones of evening revelry, each year saw the arrival of ever more enchanting creations – basic rag-dolls replaced by Piroesques and then magnificent clockwork ballerinas.

The subjects of the toy-maker’s endeavors were always perfect studies in female form – perfect from the first ever model – and yet somehow ever more beguiling with each passing year.
And as for the old models, they were put away, never to be seen again by human eye.

There was many a traveler who made an annual pilgrimage to B–– simply to see what the toy-maker had built, to gaze upon the newest creation, and to wonder enigmatically about the disappearance of the old. With respect to what they saw, they were never disappointed.

Understandably, however, visitors often grew covetous of the dolls, longing to have them for themselves; the perfect forms built, they believed, purely for their own pleasure. They felt it unfair that the toy-maker should discard the old models, which they vowed could bring them perfect joy forever. As none had ever seen the toy-maker, none had ever been able to ask what became of the older dolls and everyone assumed that they were kept locked up in the toy-maker’s workshop; a crime, they believed, for they did not see why the joy could not be shared, could not be purchased…

Time passed. And then one particular summer, during the magical month of June, a traveler came to town. A traveler from the lost corner of the world where tell of the toy-maker had not yet spread.

While out walking the winding streets of the old town, headed with no certainty toward the abbey in its midst, the traveler spied the toy-maker’s latest doll – a pure-faced, white-laced dancer, who spun with grace and imperium on a golden pedestal. With no forewarning of the creature’s clockwork nature the traveler took the doll for a forlorn and lovely maiden; he projected upon her solemn gaze a long and tragic history. And wondered, perhaps, if she needed saving.

Catching, he believed, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, he approached her and set himself to conversation. The doll gave no reply. At first the traveler was saddened by this and felt a pang of rejection. But, as he looked closer, he realized he had made a mistake; whom he had taken for a maiden he saw to be a man-made creation. He apologized to the doll for his error and continued his slow paced wandering.

As he turned to go, however, the doll let out a cough. He turned back around and saw that the doll was smiling. The traveler was stunned.

But then the doll began to speak…

“Hello,” said the doll, “Do not be alarmed.”

“Oh,” said the traveler, “At first I took you for a maiden, forlorn and in need of saving. But then, when you did not respond, I took you for a doll.”

“Indeed,” the doll replied, “I am a doll. Although I am, in point of fact, also a maiden.”

The traveler was confused and looked squarely forward in puzzlement.

The doll continued: “And what is more,” she said, “I am also a toy-maker. Of some repute I might add. This is an example of my work.” She gestured at herself. And then she smiled.

The traveler was frozen by this statement for he had never met a talking maiden doll before, least of all one who was also a toy-maker and, he gathered, her own creator at that. He marshaled himself and finally found some words to speak:

“I am confused,” he said, “So answer me, please, this question: You are a doll, but you are also a maiden; you are a creature to be coveted and a creature to be saved, and yet, as a toy-maker, you seem to be master of your own destiny. If you are indeed all these things, my question is this: do you, in fact, need saving?”

The doll-maiden-toy-maker raised an eyebrow and, looking the traveler squarely in the eye, she smiled.

And she said nothing.

The Song

2005-01-04T01:26:00.000Z

It was into a war torn and ravaged world that a baby boy was born. His father was a soldier and had died, far away, many months before the child’s birth. It had fallen to the boy’s mother to raise the child alone. She loved her son, and wanted only good things for him. Although she was poor, she endeavoured to give him everything he needed, and to love him with all her heart.

She was a truly caring soul. During the day she would journey into the streets to help people less fortunate than herself, women whose husbands had died, or soldiers who had returned from the war, desperate and mad. She would bathe the sick and tend the wounded. Because she could not bear to be apart from him, she carried her son upon her back. And as she worked, she would sing to the boy, songs of love and life and truth.

The boy’s mother was a woman possessed of a wonderful voice. Her sonorous melodies carried with them such subtleties of emotional prescience that they almost created life themselves. They were rich and complicated; masterpieces of honesty and humanity.

These were songs she had learned while growing up, taught to her by family members, offered by strangers, granted to her by life as tokens of respect, in the knowledge that she would use them well. They had helped her, and nurtured her, and kept her strong as life had run its course. The strength she’d gained from them had, in no small part, given her the resolve to help others. And now she wanted to teach them to her son.

She was not protective of the songs and didn’t mind who heard them. Indeed, it gave her pleasure to think that others might pick up the melodies, and might begin to sing them for themselves. But, there was one particular song which she would only sing to her son at night, when she was certain they were alone.

This song was the most complicated of all, an opera in many parts. It was a song that could not be sung in a single sitting, an innumerable epic with soaring highs and desolate lows. A piece of music both balanced and sprawling; confusing, yet entirely complete. If such a song could exist, then there was no other way to describe it: this was the song of life itself. And each night, before he fell asleep, she would sing a little of it to her son.

The first few verses were light: rich with promise, pregnant with humour and expectation. The boy would giggle when he heard them. Hum along with the upbeat melody. Clap his hands to the lilting beat. His mother sung of flowers, of summer skies, and happy times. The boy loved these verses, and asked to hear them over and over again. And his mother would oblige him, confident they would stick in his mind.

But she knew that she would have to sing the other parts as well. And not all of the song was happy. Much of it was unrelentingly sad. The boy’s mother was almost reluctant to sing these parts. She remembered vividly how sad they had made her feel when they had first been sung to her. A little older than her son at the time, she had cried in her room for days, lost in great fits of despair, certain that she could not continue to live in a world which allowed such pain.

But she also remembered the relief she had felt when the contour of the song had shifted yet again, when it had become clear that the sadness could be set into relief and she had first experienced the quality of joy and freedom that arose when released from these earthly fears. And so she breathed deeply and began to sing the saddest parts.

During the day, she continued to help the sick. She would walk the streets, her son upon her back, knocking on doors, offering food, helping to change bandages. But her mood was heavy. The melancholy of the song had made her morose. And it was even worse for her son, whose face bore a mask of inexpressible pain. She would have stopped helping people, if it had not been so apparent that they needed her. Even as she walked around in sadness, they smiled, and thanked her for all that she was doing.

It was during this melancholy period, while out upon her rounds, that she met the soldier. She found him resting, sitting in the churchyard, a broken ankle badly secured in a makeshift splint. His humour was good, however, and he smiled at the woman and tipped his hat to the little boy. The woman was taken aback. He was a handsome man with a worldly but playful glint in his eye, and his deportment was not unlike that of the boy’s father. Although she didn’t say anything, she felt an immediate connection.

She set to fixing his splint and tried to make merry by humming a little tune. The soldier, though, noticed the overwhelming sadness in both the woman and the boy. He seemed concerned, and with a quiet voice asked if she’d like to dine with him that night.

The mother assented. The soldier seemed kind and gentle by nature, and her state of mind was such that she could truly use the company. And so she suggested that he come to see her that night, after she had put her son to sleep.

That evening she sang to her son, perhaps the saddest verse of all. Her wailing tones were carried by the wind and echoed in the souls of all who heard them, chilling them to the very core. The little boy cried, as he had never cried before, saddened to the point of desolation. His young mind could not quite understand the words, but he felt the pain as purely as a blade. So overwhelmed was he by the sadness of his mother’s singing that when she stopped, he fell immediately into an exhausted sleep. He dreamt of a blackness so dark and empty that it is a wonder he ever woke again.

His mother sat for quite some time, pondering the value of her actions. To sing this song was a terrible thing. To create such pain in one so young. But she comforted herself with the thought that tomorrow’s verse would turn a corner, from here she would start to rebuild the world, and the song would give him incredible strength. Her thoughts were halted by the soldier’s call.

He had come to her with wine and plentiful food. He smiled as he opened his knapsack and laid bare a great feast of cured meats and exotic fruits. They ate and drank until they were full. They laughed and talked into the early hours.

But, as daylight approached, the soldier rose and bid his leave. He would not outstay his welcome, he said. The mother was sad, for she had thoroughly enjoyed his company. But she did not ask him to stay, for she too knew that he had to leave. She walked him to the door and said a kind farewell. But then she faltered. His eyes were so familiar and, as he looked at her, for a moment she believed she was back with her dead husband. She took his hands and kissed him with all her soul. At this the soldier smiled and walked off into the night. She sensed, then, that something was wrong and immediately her heart was filled with dread.

She went to look upon her son. He lay so still, she worried for a moment that he was dead. But then he breathed and she was very much relieved. Perhaps she was worrying about nothing, she thought. And so she took herself to bed.

The next morning, she made her mind to wake him with a song. She went to his room and sat beside his bed. But when she tried to sing, no sound escaped her lips. Hard as she tried, she could not produce a note. She tried a hundred times and pushed so hard it seemed her lungs would burst. She tried and tried without effect, and grew so scared because she knew for certain that something was wrong. She tried and tried, until finally she unleashed a piercing scream, a scream so loud and painful that it ripped through everything and broke the glass in the house’s windows. This was the last sound she ever uttered. Her son awoke and immediately fell into floods of tears and would not stop crying no matter how long she held him.

She knew then that she had been tricked. She felt certain that the kindly soldier had been an apparition. Perhaps a devil, set out to steal her songs. She’d heard of these creatures. She felt sick with herself for being so weak as to fall for such a sinister magic. Too weak perhaps to have been singing to her son. For, the passages had weakened her to the point of failure. And now she could no longer sing.

She became afraid. For, she realized, in leaving the song unfinished, she had unleashed a sadness that could not be contained. She could see it in her child’s eyes. He was fractious and upset and discomforted by the world. And she had done this. To her mind, she was utterly to blame.

Over the following weeks, she became increasingly guilt-ridden. She could not eat and she could not summon the energy to help the people in the streets. Even her songs could not help her, for she could no longer sing them, not even to herself. They were lost to her. The soldier’s kiss had wiped them away.

In fact, she was not destined to recover from this sickness. As the weeks turned into months and years, her sanity began to fail. She became less and less able to perceive the reality of the world around her, certain that she had created nothing but pain and misery for her son. And she was sure that he hated her for what she had done. So she drew herself away, barely able to acknowledge him any more, in anything other than the most cursory of ways.

And it is true that he was sad. As a child he would cry himself to sleep, and, as he grew older, he would walk alone, pondering his life, and wondering why it made so little sense. But he did not hate his mother. He loved her dearly, and often projected his overwhelming sadness onto her: he was sad for her, not because of her, sad for whatever it was the world had done to her to make her so afraid. Of course, he did not know the story, the reason for his sadness, but neither did he remember the songs. They were locked away, deep in his memory. All but the smallest fragments: half remembered melodies, or nearly forgotten rhymes. Most of what he remembered was happy. Images from the early verses. The flowers and sunshine. And these things made him laugh. They brought him moments of tranquillity.

So, the boy did love his mother. Still, he found it hard to be especially close to her. She had rejected him from an early age. And, though she was esteemed by the people of the town, he saw little evidence in her actions of her innate goodness. And so, he resolved to leave the town as soon as he was old enough, to travel the world and find his fortune.

On the day of his fourteenth birthday he set out. He left his mother in the care of the towns’ people, who were more than happy to take her. Some disapproved of his leaving, but others agreed that it was for the best. His mother, after all, had become a great responsibility, and the boy was still young and needed to find his feet. They gave him a knapsack, which they filled with what meagre provisions they could spare.

The boy travelled for many months, walking here and there, seeing a great many sights and meeting a great many people. People often found him strange. Some were frightened by his sadness, concerned that it might somehow engulf them, penetrate their fragile security and overwhelm them. These people kept their distance. Others, though, were enamoured. They saw beauty in the boy. Some saw a mirror, a comrade in sorrow, and they trusted him implicitly. The boy built up a number of solid and enduring friendships. But he did not stop searching.

And, it must be said, although he did not wish harm upon another living soul, neither did he perform great acts of his good as his mother had done when she had been able to sing. He was a traveller, neither a bad person, nor good. He simply wandered.

Until, one day, he came across a beggar in the street. The man was old, a cripple with a twisted leg. The beggar bid the boy to pause awhile, and perhaps to give him some bread.

The boy was happy to oblige. He stopped, sat down, and opened his pack. He offered the man some food. The beggar took it, and ate hurriedly. When the man was finished, the boy repacked his things and stood up to leave. The beggar, however, raised his hand. “Stop,” he said, “Let me talk with you awhile. I want to tell your fortune.”

The boy nodded and then once more sat down. The beggar continued:

“I know you,” said the beggar, and stared deeply into the boy’s eyes. A moment passed, and it seemed that he was searching for something to say. Finally, he spoke. “I was not always a beggar,” he said. He paused, but the boy was listening intently. “In fact, I was once a soldier,” said the beggar. “And,” he said, “an evil man.” Despite the content of his words, the beggar spoke calmly. He paused once more. Then he nodded. “I know of your sadness,” he said, “And I know that I alone am to blame.”

The boy listened in rapture. He did not speak a word.

The man continued: “Understand this: I did not intend to be evil. I fought in the war with your father. He and I were friends. I listened, many times, when he spoke of your mother, of his love for her, and of the wonder in her voice. I wished so dearly that I could know that love, that I could hear that voice. Though, in fact, I never spoke. But I wished. I wished so strongly. I wished so strongly that the devil granted my desire. And, I watched your father die. And I held him as he died. And then, with his last words, he asked me to find her. The devil is cruel. And I would listen at the window. I listened many nights. Listened to her as she sang to you, sang to you the song of life. But the devil had me. Take the song, he said. Take the song. And I willingly agreed. He did not have to tempt me. It is a truly beautiful song, your birthright. But it is a complicated work. And at the moment the devil found me, I was unfathomably sad. I would have done anything to have that song. And I took it. In whole, it creates such inner peace. But it has not made me good. For years it made me wealthy. And, though it is true: with my wealth I have helped people; you’ll simply have to trust this. I gave my wealth away. But I never gave you back your song. The one thing I should have done. The single good deed. Instead, I have left you sad. And for that I apologize.”

The boy remained silent. His head was filled with a great many confused and complicated thoughts. Though, in truth, he felt little anger.

“But,” said the man. “Now that you have found me. You must have it. Come with me,” said the man, “that I may sing to you.”

The boy paused, and thought for many moments. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, “your offer is kind. But, I do not think I want it. In truth, I am used to sadness. It is my way. I thank you, though, for your honesty. For explaining to me who I am. I understand more clearly now. And that alone is enough. So, I thank you. You have made many things clear.” The boy stood up. “And now I must go,” he said.

The beggar bowed his head, and the boy took his leave. He turned in his tracks, and started to walk back home, a journey of some great distance.

When he arrived at his mother’s house, he entered quietly. He walked up to her room and found her sleeping. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. Then he took her hand and sat down beside her. And he held her hand till morning, whispering over and over: I love you.

The Little Yellow Circle

2005-01-04T01:23:00.000Z

The little yellow circle was lonely.

She was different from the other children of the sky. The other children had fun. They were light and fluffy, without a care in the world. They were always playing charades and darting around. They would chase each other about and try to guess what they were pretending to be.

But the little yellow circle was different. No-one ever looked at her. And no-one ever tried to guess what she was pretending to be. There wouldn’t have been any point. She never changed her shape. She was always the same: just a little yellow circle.

Everyday, from the time she woke up, until the time she went to sleep, she was the same. And all she ever did was drift aimlessly across the sky. No-one even noticed her. She thought she must be incredibly boring and ugly.

Things had been like this for as long as she could remember. And she was becoming lonelier and lonelier.

One day, while she was watching some of the other children playing a game of charades, she thought that she could stand it no more. The pain of loneliness had become unbearable. She called out to one of the children.

“Hello,” she said.

The child stopped. At that moment he was pretending to be a bunny rabbit.

“Hello,” the little yellow circle said again. “Can you hear me?”

The bunny rabbit turned his head. He squinted at the little yellow circle. He seemed to be covering his eyes.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked.

The little yellow circle nodded, but the bunny rabbit didn’t appear to notice.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I watch you playing all the time. I know I’m boring and rubbish at charades, but no-one ever talks to me.”

The bunny rabbit looked confused. He was shifting his shape uncomfortably, becoming less and less bunny-like with every passing second.

“Oh,” he said, after an appreciable time, “That’s really funny.”

“Funny?” said the little yellow circle.

“Yes,” said the almost bunny, “I’ve never heard anything so silly in my life. We notice you all the time, but the way you drift across the sky, you seem so peaceful. We never wanted to bother you.”

The little yellow circle swallowed.

“Besides which,” the almost bunny continued, “You’re so intensely bright – with your golden yellow glow – it’s difficult to look at you. I have to shield my eyes to prevent myself from going blind.”

“But that’s terrible,” said the little yellow circle, “I never realised any of this. Peaceful? Blinding? How awful. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.”

“No trouble,” said the almost bunny, now more a fuzzy blob than anything else, “In fact, it’s only because of you that we have the light to play our games. At night, when you’re asleep, we can barely see at all.”

“Really?” said the little yellow circle.

“Yes,” said the fuzzy shape, “You’re pretty special.”

The little yellow circle smiled. She’d never realized any of this.

“Thank you,” she said to her companion, who swirled and danced, before bidding her a fond farewell.

I’m special, thought the little yellow circle.

And so the little yellow circle was happy for a while, content that she was special, now aware that different could also be something good.

But things were not completely right, because the little yellow circle was still feeling lonely.

After her conversation with the bunny rabbit, she spent a lot of time talking to the other children. But they always had to shield their eyes.

And she could never join in any of their games.

She was constantly aware of how different she was. She wished there was someone else like her that she could talk to.

She mentioned this to one of the children. He was busy playing, pretending to be a castle.

“I’m lonely,” said the little yellow circle, “I know that I’m special and I don’t mean to complain, but I feel so different from everybody else. There’s nobody remotely like me anywhere.”

The castle frowned.

“That’s tough,” he said. He clattered his drawbridge. “I feel sorry for you. That’s got to feel pretty bad.”

But then the castle started to dance.

“But do you know what?” he said. “There is someone else like you. At night, when you’re asleep, a little silver circle appears. He drifts along just like you.”

“Really?” said the little yellow circle. “He comes when I’m asleep?”

“Yes,” said the castle. “He’s here almost every night.”

The little yellow circle was excited. “Do you think I’ll ever meet him?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said the castle. “Maybe if you wish for it hard enough.”

And so the little yellow circle wished. And time went by. But she never met the silver circle.

Her fluffy friends tried to help her. They told her stories about the silver circle, about what he did while she was asleep. And occasionally there would pass on messages. Apparently, he was lonely, too. Apparently, the silver circle wanted to meet her.

The little yellow circle was excited by this news, but she was also exceedingly frustrated. Unfair that he only woke up when she was asleep. How could this be so?

Her frustration led to doubt. She began to wonder how similar were they really? The children had mentioned that the silver circle was a shape shifter. But he wasn’t like the fluffy children; he changed regularly, like a gentle blink.

Still, he was the closest that she had to a perfect match and she was desperate to meet him.

Not that any of this mattered, because it seemed that it was never going to happen.

But then one day, a miracle occurred.

It was a day like any other – the fluffy children were playing and the little yellow circle was drifting aimlessly across the sky – when a ghostly shape appeared in the sky.

The shape was pale, almost transparent, but there was no mistaking his silver-grey colour, no denying his perfect round shape.

The silver circle had come to visit.

The little yellow circle watched him for a while. She could see that he was drifting towards her. She was very excited.

She called out to him across the sky.

“Hello,” she said.

But the silver circle did not respond. He went right on drifting straight toward her.

“Hello,” she said again, but less confidently this time.

The silver circle went right on drifting. He was coming closer and closer.

And suddenly, he was upon her. She could feel his touch. His silver skin was cold.

The little yellow circle shuddered.

The silver circle didn’t stop. He kept on moving. He started to cover her up. He covered her face. And her covered her eyes.

He pushed himself on top of her until she was completely beneath him.

Everything was dark.

The little yellow circle cried out.

“Why is this happening?” she shouted. Her scream came out as a blinding flash.

The silver circle said nothing.

The little yellow circle was trapped beneath him.

“Why is this happening?” she said again.

But the silver circle did not respond. He stayed there, cold and grey on top of her.

And then he started to drift away. Without a word, and as if nothing had happened, he resumed his journey across the sky.

Soon he was no longer visible.

The little yellow circle was shaking. She had no idea what had happened. She was shocked and sad and felt more alone than ever.

She wanted to be somewhere else. She didn’t like it in the sky. And with that thought, she started to shrink away.

As the little yellow circle shrank, it grew colder in the sky. The other children shivered. They looked up and saw that the little yellow circle was leaving.

They called to her to come back. Some of them chased after her, but she didn’t stop shrinking.

The sky became dark and grey. It was very cold.

“She’s gone,” said one of the children, a tear forming in his eye.

The other children nodded. One by one they were all starting to cry. Soon all the children were crying very hard.

“Come back,” they sobbed. “Please come back.”

But the little yellow circle was far away.

And all that they could do was hope that she’d return some day.

The Lake

2005-01-04T01:14:00.000Z

An old man sits with his son. The boy has come to his father for advice. He is going through a difficult time; he has lost his job and new work has not been forthcoming, and now his lover is threatening to leave him. She says he’s become distant, that he’s negative and bleak. He feels useless and powerless and certain that the world has turned against him.

The old man has been listening attentively for quite some time, nodding often to his son’s tangled explanations and his assertions that nobody understands. He has said very little, allowing his son all the space he needs to communicate.

When the boy has finished talking, the old man remains silent, taking a few moments to consider his response. Finally, he speaks.

“Son,” he says, “Let me tell you a story.”

And he begins:

There was once a boy who lived with his father. They lived together in a small apartment in a grey and smoky city, a gridded expanse of soaring, concrete towers.

The boy’s mother was dead. She had died recently and tragically and neither the boy nor his father was coping. The father and son had never been emotionally communicative and they were finding it nearly impossible to talk about their feelings. In the past it had been hard, but the mother’s death had created a rift that stifled their words like a vacuum.

The boy’s discomfort affected him at school. He had become reclusive and shy and the other children teased him unrelentingly. The boy was lonely. More than anything he wanted to have friends. He wanted to be accepted by his peer group. This, he was sure, would make him happy.

The boy’s father was a workaholic and since his wife’s death he had started working that much harder. Deep down he knew that this was a coping strategy, but he felt sure that it was effective. The work took his mind off things. But he could see that it wasn’t helping his son. The boy was sad and the man realized he had to do something about it. He arranged to take his son on holiday, on an exciting outdoor adventure.

The father had in mind a week of fishing, hunting and swimming, and took the boy to the country, a thousand miles from the city, away from the grey and smoky air, to a village beside a forest and a deep, expansive lake.

The boy had never seen the country before. For the first time in his life he was breathing pure air and listening to the sounds of peace and tranquillity.

The unfamiliar naturalness frightened him. His father cajoled him into hunting and fishing, but the boy didn’t take any pleasure from outdoor activities. He found that he wasn’t very good at them. Yet his father seemed certain that “doing was best” and the boy felt pressurized into having fun.

But they still weren’t talking. In fact, their relationship was as tense as it had ever been. And now, without even the distractions of noise and bustle, the boy began to feel lonelier than ever.
And so, he ran away.

One day, while his father was out collecting bait for yet another a fishing trip, the boy ran off into the wilderness. He ran and ran without any thought to his destination. He just ran to be away from his father. From the incongruity and the artifice of their bonding. He ran on and on through the forests and fields never once stopping, just wishing to be away. At times he closed his eyes, so that he couldn’t see the nature. He didn’t want it – all this nature – he just wanted to be away. And so he ran.

Until he reached the lake.

For a moment he stood, staring at the water. It was deep and dark and green. And it seemed to go on forever.

A fairytale lake. It was frightening.

And yet, enticing.

The boy didn’t think. He simply jumped. He found that he had jumped. Jumped into the lake, into the darkness and the deep. And then he began to sink, slowly, toward the bottom.

Down, he sank. The light from the sky above him dwindling into blackness. He closed his eyes. He could feel the water all around him. Swallowing him. Surrounding him.

And it was warm. Somehow it was warm.

And as he continued to sink, he found that it relaxed him, the water all around him, holding him like a blanket, soothing him with its warmth, touching him so intimately. It was almost peaceful.
But then he heard a noise. He opened his eyes. There was a dull green glow emanating from below him.

The sound of something living. Air bubbles.

And suddenly, it was upon him. The shape was blurred before him. He didn’t have time to comprehend. He felt an arm? A pincher? It grabbed at him and pulled him down into the deep.

Meanwhile, back on land, the boy’s father had noticed his disappearance. He scouted around the village trying to find him, becoming increasingly panic-stricken when he did not. He wasn’t sure what to do. The thought of losing another loved one filled him with terror. What had he done to deserve this? If the boy was hiding… He searched around, even as far as the lake, but found nothing. He searched until dark and then, fretfully, he went to see the sheriff.

By the time he reached the sheriff’s office, the man was an emotional wreck. He was terrified that he had lost his boy, yet angry that it might be a prank, that his son might be trying to spite him in some way. He felt impotent in the world and he took it out on the sheriff, storming up to him in a rage.

The sheriff wasn’t happy. He was offended by the man’s outburst and instantly disliked him. He said the man was irresponsible, a city thrill seeker, who’d come to the country without any thought to the safety of his son. He said it was the man’s fault that his son was missing. He showed him a series of press cuttings, which he presumed the man had read before deciding to come to the village. The press cuttings made it plain: People had been disappearing from the town for over a year now, with a frightening regularity, and so far no-one had been found. The sheriff shook his head. There was really nothing he could do, he said.

The sheriff’s nonchalance riled the man. He stormed out of his office, deriding him for his lack of initiative, annoyed by his unsympathetic manner. He was really angry now. If that was the sheriff’s reaction, he said, it was small wonder so many people were missing; he would organize a search party himself and find his son and the others. He ran around town, shouting loudly, trying to shake people into action.

Underwater, the boy had been taken to the bottom of the lake, where the green glow was bright enough for him to see clearly. He had been dragged down there by a creature. A hideous, mutant monster with crab pinchers and a gnarled toad like body and eyes the size of saucers, black and empty. The boy was frightened. But the monster didn’t harm him. It took him to a cave where there were a hundred other creatures all mutated and ugly. They approached the boy, staring at him with their huge, empty eyes. And they offered him kindness.

In the town, things were frenetic. The man had convinced the people to form a search party and was busily trying to get them organized. There was much shouting and aggravation as they worked as quickly as they could. The man’s anger fuelled the panic, increasing the sense of urgency.

At the bottom of the lake, though, things were peaceful. The monsters were not hurtful or evil; they were simple creatures living together in harmony. Laughing and swimming and blissfully happy. The boy sensed that he’d be comfortable around them.

And that’s when the transformation began. Slowly, at first, but with ever increasing rapidity, the boy began to change. His arms grew shorter and his neck grew wider, until his chin and ears were no longer separated from his body. His legs began to atrophy and his toes began to web. He developed scales and crab-like claws. And soon he was a monster just like all the others, just like all the missing people, who one by one had come to the lake and been transformed into monsters and were living together in a utopian underwater society.

Back on land, the panic had reached a fever pitch. The man was growing frustrated by the villagers’ lack of pace. He wanted them to work faster and tried to coerce them with urgent words, but he just appeared angry. The people reacted badly. There was a growing air of aggression in the village.

Underwater, calmness prevailed. In fact, things had become increasingly peaceful since the boy’s arrival. The entire community agreed. The love, the peace, everything was increasing. It was happening before their eyes.

It was so apparent, in fact, that the monsters were convinced it was a sign: A sign that the time had come for them to spread their message of peace and love to the world at large.

They elected to send the boy back to land as a messenger. He should go, they said, because he was special. He had transformed so quickly and had understood so readily that it was obvious he should go. True, he had only been with them a short while, but this was an asset. He had only just left the village and so was best equipped to talk to the humans who remained there.

At first, the boy didn’t want to go. He was sad to be leaving the community when he had only just arrived, but they assured him that this was the best decision. He was most qualified for the task. He was to go to the village and tell the people about the community. And then he was to bring them to the lake. The monsters would be waiting. Everything would be good.

And so the boy returned to land. As he walked toward the village, he pushed his feelings of sadness aside, thinking about the joyful message he was about to impart. He was thinking so hard that he didn’t notice how, upon leaving the water, he had started to become human again. His legs reformed and his scales fell away. By the time he reached the town his body showed not a trace of his experience in the lake. Still, he couldn’t wait to find his father to explain.

The boy ran through the town, oblivious to the chaos all around him. He was smiling widely, excited by what he had to say. When he found his father, he ran up to him expectantly.
His father yelled at him. He was so worked up and angry that he couldn’t do anything else.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted.

The boy was upset by his father’s reaction. He froze. All the peaceful thoughts that he had been holding evaporated in an instant. He tried to pass on the message, but the words wouldn’t form properly. “There are monsters in the lake,” he said, but that was all he could communicate.

He had said enough, though. His words were heard by the villagers who were certain they had understood them. With not a minute’s thought, they gathered up their guns and marched off to the lake, to where the monsters were waiting, ready to proclaim their message of peace and love.

As the people marched, guns in hand, to the lake, the monsters hovered on the shore. They swam about and frolicked, peaceful and loving, happy that they would soon be sharing their secret. There was mounting excitement in the monster community. They could see the villagers approaching.

As they marched toward the water, the villagers prepared themselves. With each step, the monsters came clearer into view. It only took one look, a single glimpse of their hideous mutant forms, for the people to know for certain that these creatures had killed their comrades. To the people, those pitch-black saucer eyes communicated nothing but evil. In a fury of bullets, they shot the monsters, firing with huntsmen’s accuracy and making certain that each and every one of them was dead. The monsters did nothing to defend themselves.

When the execution was over, the people relaxed, relieved that the menace had been destroyed.
And then they turned to the boy and congratulated him. They raised him on their shoulders and cheered. There would be no more disappearances, they said, and that was down to him. He was a hero, they said. The boy nodded, but he said nothing at all. He was carried by the villagers silently back into town. That night they cooked him a heroes’ banquet.

It wasn’t long before news of the monsters and of the boy’s heroic deed spread out into the world. The story was so unusual that there were few people who did not get to hear about it. People came from all over the world to meet the boy and ask him what had happened. The boy said very little, simply nodding his head and agreeing that it was very unusual.

He accepted the attention unbegrudgingly, however, and never once mentioned the utopian message. It seemed wrong, somehow, now that the creatures were dead.

Eventually, when things had calmed down, the boy and his father went back to the city. His father returned to work and the boy returned to school. School was not nearly as horrific as it had been before. Since the incident with the monsters, his classmates no longer teased him. Instead, they treated him with wide-eyed respect and wanted to know all about what had happened. The boy was used to this kind of attention, by then. When people asked him about the monsters, he deflected their questions respectfully. And then he asked them things about themselves. People liked that, he noticed. They’d talk for ages. The boy would nod, content to be engaged in an interesting conversation. It wasn’t long before he had struck up some pretty solid friendships.

Which, in the end, was all he had really wanted. And for the first time in very long while, the boy was truly happy.

The old man looks at his son, to make sure he understands. “And now I want to ask you a question,” he says. “I want you to tell me who the monsters in that story are.”

The young man pauses. He is not sure if his father is joking. “But that sounds like a trick question,” he says. “There are so many monsters in that story.”

“Like who for instance?”

“Well, like the children, for instance,” he says, “the way they tease the boy.”

The old man shakes his head.

“But those children turn out to be his friends. Children are cruel sometimes. It’s how they deal with things they don’t understand. The boy only had to open up to them, treat them on their own terms, and everything was okay. Do you really think the children were monsters?”

The son frowns. His father looks at him sternly.

The young man tries again: “Well, the people in the village are definitely monsters for killing the creatures without listening to their message.”

The old man shrugs. “But were they really that monstrous? Their actions may have been misguided, but they were only trying to protect their community. Perhaps if they had acted less impulsively they might have saved a few lives, but that’s about all we can say. Isn’t it?”

The son screws up his face. He looks a little uncertain. “But…” he begins, not quite finishing his sentence. He squints at his father. “But in that case, the father is definitely the monster. For taking the boy to the country, without really thinking about the consequences and for being so unsympathetic… and for never managing to communicate.”

The old man sighs. “The father tries his best. He’s only human. People make mistakes. He had his son’s best interests at heart, even if he got things wrong. That doesn’t make him a monster, does it?”

“Well, you’re not going to tell me the boy was the monster are you? He didn’t tell anybody about the message, which I guess you could call self-centred.”

“No. Not the boy.” The old man smiles at his son. “He was right not to say much, don’t you think? The creatures were dead. The utopia was destroyed. What’s the point of telling people about something they cannot have? It would just depress them. And think how upset everyone would have been when they realized they’d killed their own townsmen. No, I don’t think the boy was the monster.”

The boy pauses, thinking about what to say.

“Well, I guess there’s the sheriff,” he says, “but he’s such a minor character it doesn’t even seem worth mentioning him.”

“True,” says the father, “but this is a story about monsters. And so far you haven’t found any.”

“But there isn’t anybody left.”

“Except…”

“Except the monsters. But they’re…”

The old man raises his hand, silencing his son. “Let’s not make too many assumptions,” he says. “What if the monsters in the story really are the monsters?”

“But that’s…”

“What if they represented something unreal? An escape from reality – that the boy gets very attached to? An easy way out? A psychosis even? What if they gave him an illusion of happiness, but something that didn’t exist, that couldn’t – not in the real world – that was at odds with society? In that case, killing the monsters would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? And letting it happen would be the right thing for the boy to do, don’t you think? It would be brave. It would be grown-up.”

The man looks at his son. His son frowns. “Don’t you think? I’m not saying I’m right,” he says. “But it’s worth thinking about, isn’t it?”